Dawn and the new creation
The first chirps of the waking birds mark the “point vierge” [the virgin point] of the dawn under a sky as yet without real light, a moment of awe and inexpressible innocence, when the Father in perfect silence opens their eyes. They begin to speak to him, not with fluent song, but with an awakening question that is their dawn state, their state at the “point vierge.” Their condition asks if it is time for them to “be.” He answers, “Yes.” Then, they one by one wake up and become birds. Presently they will be fully themselves, and will even fly.
Meanwhile, the most wonderful moment of the day is that when creation in its innocence asks permission to “be” once again, as it did on the first morning that ever was.
All wisdom seeks to collect and manifest itself at that blind sweet point. Man’s wisdom does not succeed, for we are fallen into self-mastery and cannot ask permission of anyone. We face our mornings as men of undaunted purpose. We know the time and we dictate the terms. We are in a position to dictate terms, we suppose: we have a clock that proves we are right from the very start. We know what time it is. We are in touch with the hidden inner laws. We will say in advance what kind of day it has to be. Then, if necessary, we will take steps to make it meet our requirements.
For the birds there is not a time that they tell, but the virgin point between darkness and light, between nonbeing and being. You can tell yourself the time by their waking, if you are experienced. But that is your folly, not theirs. Worse folly still if you think they are telling you something you might find useful—that it is, for example, four o’clock.
So they wake: first the catbirds and the cardinals and some that I do not know. Later the song sparrows and the wrens. Last of all the doves and the crows.
The waking of the crows is most like the waking of men: querulous, noisy, and raw.
Here is an unspeakable secret: paradise is all around us and we do not understand. It is wide open. The sword is taken away, but we do not know it: we are off “one to his farm and another to his merchandise.” Lights on. Clocks ticking. Thermostats working. Stoves cooking. Electric shavers filling radios with static. “Wisdom,” cries the dawn deacon, but we do not attend.
Thomas Merton
Thomas Merton (1915-1968) was a Trappist monk of the Abbey of Gethsemani, Kentucky in the USA. He wrote over 70 books, primarily on spirituality and social justice. His autobiography, The Seven Storey Mountain, was a best-seller that impacted the post-World War II generation and caused many veterans and students across America to enter monastic life.